by Manuel Gonzales

Luis would have us over for dinner Monday nights, this just before John left for Japan. It first happened by accident. John and I met for drinks and to write and work, and afterwards we were to meet his friend, Mohammed, to play a little music. We ate and drank and worked and then drove to John's house to call Mohammed, but the plans had changed. We were meeting him at Luis's house for dinner and music, a potluck, bring what you can, preferably wine. But we had eaten already and were full, and then I was nervous because Luis and Ephraim are real musicians. But John said the music will be good and the food possibly even better, what with Mohammed and his Persian rice, so what can we do for our hunger?

It was cold and so we went to the springs since John didn't know how good the water felt in the winter, and we swan and the air was cool and the water, when we first stepped in, was cold, and John splashed his arms and legs to warm himself, and by the time we swam half a lap, the water was warm and our bodies were comfortable and our stroke smooth and controlled. Changing into dry clothes, we froze, but we weren't so cold with the adrenaline, and we drove quickly to Luis's house, my drums and John's guitar in the back of my truck. We picked up a good, inexpensive bottle of red on the way.

I do not remember what we ate that first night, except for Mohammed's rice. Mohammed would pour the tallest glass of wine, and he would make the finest rice - sprinkled with saffron and stir-fried with cashews and sun-dried cranberries - and as he cooked, he would sing, and his songs would make the rice right. John would play Spanish on his guitar, and Eprhaim would play soft, in and out, soft and fine on his trumpet, and if Luis weren't cooking, he would play his stand-up, and the four of them would be the music, and the rest of us would play the rhythm, spoons tapping on glasses, knuckles knocking on the table, hands beating against the walls and clapping in time and slapping against the stools or chairs or each others' backs, and the food would cook.

As the food cooked and as we played and sang and drank, more people would show up - Sasha and her smile and her rosemary bread, Yashi and Caleche and Angela, all lovely and talented, Christie, who dances, Teresa and Ximena and Corrie from next door, Isaac and Angel and Charity, and, once, even Abel, who didn't bring food, but brought his trés, which was even better as he plays and sings as well as most foods taste. They would come with a bottle of wine or a dish - potatoes or pasta or fish or chicken, and soon, the table would be so full of food and drink, we couldn't play rhythm anymore, or we would have to move to the living room and stomp our feet or play on someone's drum. That first time, I had my drums but did not play them, because I was nervous and because the music felt too good to play to, and I would rather concentrate on listening than on playing, and if I weren't playing, I could walk around the house and smell and taste the food and drink more wine and talk to more friends, or just sit and listen to conversations in Spanish and Portuguese and even Farsi.

Sometimes, after we had eaten and all there was to do was wash our food down with more wine and rest in the living room and listen to the music, Mohammed would drum and he would sing. I would watch him play and listen to his harsh, beautiful Persian voice matched against Christian's voice and guitar and John's guitar and Ephraim's trumpet, playing soft and deep, like velvet. And Luis would come out of the kitchen, out from washing the dishes, and he would play and his fingers would be like oil or water or both, fluid and effortless, sliding over the neck of his bass, and it all would seem very much like foreplay. We would sit and listen, or those who hadn't eaten too much would dance or just sway, but the rest of us were too full. Too full to dance, too full to move, almost too full to talk - full from Mohammed's rice and Angela's fideo or her creole salmon or Yashi's homemade cornbread and croquettes, Dylan's pan-peach cobbler and sweet potato pie. Full from the yogurt-dill-cucumber salad, the fruit salads, the Spanish omelet, the lentil soups, the tamales, the chilies, the cheeses, the breads, the wine . . . Full and content and rested, we would let the music carry us off in a haze, until the music stopped, and the house would be empty again except for us few, and we would retire to the kitchen, to finish the wine if there were wine left, and to finish cleaning the kitchen, nibbling here and there as we cleaned. Saying good-bye, we would hug and kiss and hug again, and, drowsy, we would drive home.

By the time you read this, Luis and Sasha will be on their way to Costa Rica. John is even now in Japan, teaching, playing, writing. Ximena is headed to Brasil with Destino2000. Ephraim may soon leave, taking his trumpet with him. The potlucks have all but ended, and so I write this in memory of you. Sentimental, but true.